


His Were Red Carnations

by Moji_The_Potato



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz, Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz (Two River Cast) RPF
Genre: Be More Chill - Freeform, Boyf friends, Chloe and Rich and Michael are all besties, F/F, Hanahaki Disease, Hanahaki!Michael, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pinkberry, Poor Michael, but not a lot, richjake, trigger warning: blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-06-30 20:37:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15759228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moji_The_Potato/pseuds/Moji_The_Potato
Summary: He had seen the Disease four times in his life.Nanay’s flowers were pink ambrosias.The girl from summer camp had daisies.Emmett had pink camellias..His were red carnations.My heart aches for you.How fitting.





	1. Press Start to Begin

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!! Uh, so this is my first fic...  
> I hope you like it! 
> 
> \- Moji
> 
> Enjoy!

Hanahaki Disease is a mystery. Scientists know what causes it, but they don’t know how it happens. Science can’t explain how flowers just amazingly appear in your lungs, when said flowers know you love someone who doesn’t love you back, or why the flowers are linked so profusely to the memories of this person in your brain.

Hanahaki Disease is deadly. You don’t want it. Watching someone have it is painful and terrifying to watch. Having the Disease is a whole different thing.

It’s amazing how every flower has a meaning, but when covered in blood, they all mean the same.

***

His first encounter with the Disease was when he was five. He had discovered his Nanay in the basement bathroom, coughing and crying into the toilet bowl. He stood watching her for a moment before seeing her push her hair out of her face in between coughs and sobs, which is when he ran in and grabbed her hair in his tiny hands, holding it behind her neck.

She turned her neck so she could look at him, opening her mouth to say something before immediately shutting it and coughing into the toilet again, groaning afterwards and covering her eyes with her hands before dragging them down her face. It was then she turned back around, fully facing him, sorrow and guilt lacing her features.

“I’m sorry you had to see that, anak.” She looked down, meeting his eyes. She sighed and reached out to push back the hair that was falling into his eyes.

“Are you okay, Nanay?” She smiled smally, and gave an equally small nod. “Do you want me to tell Papa when he gets home?”

She shook her head. “Not necessary, anak,” another sigh, “it would just make him upset anyway.” He nodded, confused. If Nanay didn’t want Papa to know, then Papa wouldn’t know. His Nanay got up off the floor and helped him up too. Before she flushed the toilet, he got a glimpse of what was in the toilet bowl. He saw pointy petals that were soft pink. Some were wilted and dried while others looked like they came from freshly watered flowers. What really threw him off about the scene was that a handful were covered in red. Some fully of hallway submerged and others with just little red specks littering the entire petal. Before he could ask questions, his Nanay had flushed the toilet, picked him up, and started walking up the basement steps.

For the next few months, he would continue to hold his Nanay’s hair back. He still didn’t know why she would cough up flowers, but he was always there with her in the basement bathroom when she would cough them up into the toilet, or the sink, or the trashcan. And he would do his best to talk to his Nanay, to make her laugh. It was during one of those when he found out that the flowers she would cough up were called ambrosias. It was also during this time that he learned how to braid and paint finger nails.

It was when his love for music first began with his mother putting on a new song on a small Ipod for them to sing along to as best they could.

But for every time there were moments like those, there were the moments where his Nanay would pull him into her lap, after she was done coughing, and cry into his hair, muffling apologies and other small sentences. “Anak, I pray to any God that is willing to listen that you will never have to go through this, ever.” And he would tuck his head into her neck, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.

It was a daily routine for months and months, and then slowly it became every other day, then once a week. And then, the flowers just stopped. His Nanay became healthy, happy, _herself_ again.

He was too young and naive at the time to make the connection between the flowers stopping and his Papa leaving -- he was upset when he left, but his Papa wasn’t a good man anyway, he would be better off without him. All he knew was that the flowers stopped, his Papa was gone, and that two weeks later he met his Nanay’s girlfriend, Maya, and saw how happy they were together.

And a year and a half later, when he stood next to his Nanay as she got married to his new Momma, he held her bouquet, which was made up of pink ambrosias.

***

The second time he ever saw The Flowers, which was his name for the Disease at the time, he was nine and at a sleepaway camp for a week over the summer. It was a girl that looked to be a few years older than him, two or three by the looks of it. He spotted her while he was at lunch one day, her face in the bushes.

She was coughing when he got there, and he recognized the type of cough. The same cough that his Nanay would do years ago when she had The Flowers. She sat up after a minute or so and looked at him, her eyes glassy from unshed tears. He sat down next to her and pulled her into a hug.

She broke the hug to resume coughing up flowers into the bushes, and her hair was shorter, too short to be able to hold back for her, so he resorted to rubbing her back instead. They stayed like that for a few minutes before she stopped again and sat back up looking at him. She gave him a nod of gratitude before she got up and walked back towards the archery fields, which he guess is where she was supposed to be.

The next day, she was back at the bush, and he immediately went over to her with his lunch. He gave the girl his water, hoping it would help with the scratchiness that he thought she might have in her throat. She accepted it with a smile, and opened it to drink some immediately.

“You know someone that had Hanahaki, don’t you?” He tilted his head in confusion, eyebrows furrowing. She stared right back at him. “Hanahaki. The flower disease.”

It was then when he finally learned the name of the Disease that had plagued his Nanay those years ago. Hanahaki. It made sense.

He nodded. “My Nanay had it a few years ago,” it was her turn to look at him confusedly. “My mom.” She tilted her head back and ‘hmm’ed, then she winced.

“Your mom? That must’ve been hard.” He shook his head, then told her his Nanay’s story. “Ah, you’re mom was one of the lucky ones.”

“Lucky ones?”

“Dude, you don’t know a lot about Hanahaki do you?” He shook his head. She sighed and tugged her ear, thinking. “You know it’s cause by loving people who don’t love you back?” He nodded.

“It’s also somewhat rare, not everyone gets it. Nanay called it unfair.”

“Well she’s right, ya know. It is unfair. Especially to those who can’t afford the surgery, like yours truly.” It was in that moment that she pulled a few petals out of her mouth. They were slim and white, all sticking together with saliva. She threw the clump in the bushes and opened her mouth again to speak before a whole flower fell out. She picked it up and examined it closely.

“It’s a daisy,” he said, hoping to her her figure out what flower just fell out of her mouth. Her mouth formed a tiny ‘o’ and her eyes remained fixated on the small flower in her hands.

“I should have figured that’s what they were,” she made eye contact with him, “daisies are his favorite flowers.” She closed her fingers around the flower, and made a strangled noise as she threw it in the bushes. He sat his lunch down and pulled her into a hug like the one he gave her the day before. She wrapped her arms back around him and began sobbing, mumbling about how daisies were her favorite too.

The rest of the week continued in the same pattern, he would sit with her during lunch, give her his water and just talk.

Before everyone left on the last day, she nearly tackled him with a hug as he was trying to find his Nanay and Momma. She was crying and hugging him, telling him goodbye and that she hoped she would see him next year. He nodded into her shoulder, rubbing her back, telling her that he would never forget her.

A boy and a girl came up to them, the two holding hands. She coughed into his shoulder, confirming his suspicions that this was _him_. She gave him one last hug and kissed his cheek. Both of them were crying. They had bonded so much over the course of one week, and somehow he didn’t even know her name.

***

It was the Winter before he turned 14, at his Nanay’s and Momma’s work holiday party. He had excused himself to go to the bathroom, and it wasn’t until he was washing his hands that he heard the coughing from the farthest stall. He walked towards it cautiously, knocking two times before calling to see if the person was okay. The coughing ceased, but he could still hear the breathing of the person inside.

He knocked again. The door opened, exposing a taller man with longer hair, which was pulled up into a messy bun. The man looked at him, an unreadable expression on his face. “Mr. Hazelton?” The man nodded, sitting on the floor and leaning up against the toilet, his face projecting an emotion that he couldn’t place. He followed suit, sitting in silence with Mr. Hazelton for a few moments before the man leaned over and coughed a bit into the toilet.

It was weird to watch. Mr. Hazelton, as his Nanay described him, was not one to get caught up over emotions, to express, and his Momma liked to joke, nor feel them at all. He’d always just assumed that Mr. Hazelton was robotic, no emotions or expressions, just work and work and work. But here he was, watching said robot cough up flowers into the toilet because someone didn’t love him back. _Pain_. That’s what the emotion was.

The first emotion he’d ever seen Mr. Hazelton express, was _pain_. And a lot of it too.

Out of habit, he grabbed the few strands of hair that had been falling out of Mr. Hazelton’s bun, making sure they didn’t get into his face. The man grunted in response, and he hoped it was a ‘thank you’ and not a ‘don’t touch me, child’. When Mr. Hazelton returned to leaning his back on the toilet, he still had blood running down his chin, and even some running down his nose, immense pain written on his face, just like before.

“With all due respect, Mr. Hazelton, isn’t there a surgery? Surely you have enough money.” His voice got quieter as Mr. Hazelton met his eyes, sorrow meeting sympathy.

“I-” Mr. Hazelton gasped for a breath, “It wouldn’t matter. I’m too far gone. The longer you wait, the surgery becomes just as fatal as the flowers do.” His words were croaked out, rather than simply spoken. It was like he was forcing them out. He struggled to take another breath. “Besides, I don’t have the heart to do it. He means too much to me, to lose those memories, it would kill him if I just _forgot_ everything we’ve been through together.”

“Wait, the surgery takes away memories?” Mr. Hazelton gave a dry chuckle and nodded.

“The flowers are linked to the person,” breath, “and their memories in your brain. If you get the flowers removed, they take the memories with them.” Mr. Davidson look him straight in the eye and took a shaky breath. “And let me tell you, kid, never fall in love with your best friend. It’ll kill you, literally.”

“Isn’t there another way to get rid of the flowers?”

“Either get the person to fall in love with you,” Mr. Hazelton shook his head, biting on his bottom lip, “or falling out of love with the person. Neither of those are options for me.”

“And neither is the surgery.”

“So I’m doomed to die by these damned, these damned,” Mr. Hazelton turned around to cough into the toilet, a groaned _flowers_ coming out in between coughs. After his coughing fit, he continued to hunch over the toilet. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this, kid. Spitting pink camellias. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, Mr. Hazelton.”

“Emmett. Call me Emmett.”

They stayed in there a little longer, before Emmett walked him out and to his Nanay. He old her that he made friends with Emmett and that he was really cool. Before leaving with his Nanay and Momma, he gave Emmett his best hug he could muster, and Emmett gave him a smile in return before ruffling his hair. He watched as Emmett walked back towards the bathroom.

Going to Emmett’s funeral two months later, he looked at Emmett and how he finally looked pain free. He never wanted to see someone in that much pain again. He placed the bundle of pink camellias on his grave the next day before walking back to his Nanay and Momma.

***

Now here he was, almost 17, a junior in high school. In the bathroom at the biggest party of the fall, having a breakdown and a panic attack. Why? Because his best friend, _only_ friend, of twelve years just called him a loser. For trying to _help_ him!

It made no sense, yet here he was. Stuck in a metaphoric battlezone with no one to help him. People had been knocking, slamming, and banging on the door for the past ten minutes but all he can do is just stand there and look in the mirror, wondering where it all went wrong.

He splashed some water on his face and rubbed circles into his temples a few times before going over to the door to leave. But he couldn’t hear people knocking anymore, or calling for him to open the door because they needed to go now. He opened the door to take a peek. There was no one in the hallway, but he could see down into the living room from where he was. He could see Jeremy, sitting on the couch with Christine and talking. His stomach lurched and he felt something rise in his throat.

He thought it was throw up, but when he spit into the sink, he was faced with petals and a bit of bile. His stomach and heart both dropped and his head began to spin.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

There was only one person it could be. It wasn’t Christine, for obvious reasons -- he wore a pride patch on his hoodie for a reason -- and Jeremy was they only person who he really knew well enough for him to fall romantically in love with.

 _Never fall in love with your best friend. It’ll kill you, literally_.

Shiiiiiiiit.

He coughed some more into the sink, bile coming up too, leaving a weird mix of tastes in his mouth. The bitter, disgusting taste of the bile mixing with the weird, unfamiliar taste of the flower petals.

Eleven years ago, he would sit in the bathroom with his mom, holding her hair back as she coughed up flower petals into the toilet bowl. Now it was him in the bathroom coughing up flower petals. Alone. He made eye contact with his reflection from his hunch position over the sink, _is there a sadder sight?_

He looked back down at the petals, the deep red standing out against the crisp white ceramic of the sink. He turned to make a run for it before coughing up one into his hand. He stared at it intently.

There was no denying it now.

He was in love with Jeremy Heere.

And he was going to pay dearly for it.

Because Michael Mell was the newest victim of Hanahaki Disease.

***

He had seen the Disease four times in his life.

Nanay’s flowers were pink ambrosias.

The girl from summer camp had daisies.

Emmett had pink camellias.

Michael’s were red carnations.

_My heart aches for you._

How fitting.


	2. Choose Your Character

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The worst part of Hanahaki was not the physical side of it. No, it was the mental side of it. It was the pain of knowing that the person that you loved with all your heart didn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took forever... I’m picky with what I write and how I write it. I’m still not entirely happy with this, so I might make minor changes as I add more chapters, but it’s been over a month so HERE IT IS, BROSKIS. Hope you enjoy and I’m sorry if there are any mistakes!!
> 
> \- Moji the Potato
> 
> Ps. I’m also sorry it’s shorter than the last one, hopefully the next one will be longer!!
> 
> Love you guyssssss!!!

Michael watched from his seat as Rich would sneakily take fries from Jake’s plate. He tried not to chuckle, to not give the shorter guy away. Everytime Rich would get one, he turned to face Michael, smirking as he would shove it in his mouth before trying to take another one. And while his eyes were paying attention to Rich, his ears were focusing on Jeremy and Christine. They were sitting across the table from him, whispering and laughing with each other.

He tried to pay them no attention, to focus on Rich, whom had been caught by Jake in the midst of putting a fry in his mouth, but his eyes kept wandering back to the two. He stabbed his crappy, plastic looking, school supplied side salad with his fork while listening to Rich shout about how Jake ‘doesn’t even like the cafeteria’s fries anyway because they taste like cardboard’. It was when he felt the weight in his stomach he knew he had to get out of there. And soon. He checked his phone, letting out of small breath of relief when he realised there was only ten minutes of lunch left. Meaning that it wouldn’t be suspicious if he were to leave now.

And leave was exactly what he did.

He picked up the red plastic tray, mumbled a half-assed excuse under his breath to Rich before walking at what he hoped was a normal speed to put the tray away before rushing out the door. He had just barely made it into the bathroom and into the handicap stall before the petals forced their way out of his mouth. It was more than usual, making a knot tie itself in Michael’s stomach.

“Oh shit fuck,” he mumbled to himself. This was not good, not good at all. _At all_. With him not knowing how long it could take -- some of his coughing fits would last minutes, others took hours -- and with this happening in school, a public place, where people could walk in and see, or technically, hear him, it was going to be a gamble.

He took his glasses off so they wouldn’t fall off his face and into the toilet as he was coughing, placing them on the giant plastic toilet paper thing. He was given little time to brace himself before he doubled over the toilet bowl in pain, heaving and forcing the flower petals out of his throat. The pain in his gut only grew worse as no petals came out.

He made sounds, almost like growling, to try and get them out. That, he would realize, was the wrong this to do. They seemed to get stuck, making it impossible for him to breath. He began to wheeze, trying to get air into his lungs. He clawed at his throat, as if that would do anything to help, before wrapping one of his hands around his neck and squeezing, hoping, _praying_ , that it would do something to help.

It didn’t.

He tried to fake cough, he pressed two finger to the base of his neck, then to the back of his neck. He tried to breath through his nose. Nothing was working. This was how he would die. In the school bathroom from choking down a whole bunch of flower petals. That would leave a great legacy behind. He closed his eyes, waiting for his brain to give out from lack of oxygen when-- “Um, dude, are you okay?”

 _Rich_.

Michael was torn at what to do. Yes, him and Rich had become kind of close since the Squip situation earlier in, but at the same time, opening the stall door meant sharing his secret. His biggest secret.

He was debating with himself when a knock at the door came. “Michael? Is that you?” _Shit_. Too late now. Michael stretched his arm and pushed the lock with the little strength he had. Rich opened the door, immediately falling to his knees and pushing Michael onto his back before pushing on his chest. One, two, three, four times before Michael shot up and spat a whole bunch of small red things in the toilet. He inspected on the landed on the seat, before his eyes became wide. “Are these..?” Michael nodded, putting his head in his hands. Rich leaned his back against the tiled wall behind him. “Oh God.”

“Y-yeah.” Michael looked down in shame. They stayed in the stall for the rest of the period.

It was silent.

***

Michael avoided Rich after that. Not really, but he stopped looking him in the eye. He couldn’t stand the look of pity Rich would give him. Well, if Michael was being honest, he never _saw_ Rich do it, but he just _knew_ that’s how it was. That’s how it worked with Hanahaki, people found out and then they pitied you. There was no other way to go about it. You weren’t normal anymore in the eyes of the people who knew. You weren’t normal anymore to _yourself_.

He had been successful in remaining eye contactless with Rich for a week or so after Michael’s second bathroom incident of the year, until he wasn’t.

The gang -- Jeremy, Christine, Jake, Jenna, Chloe, Brooke, Rich, and, of course, Michael -- was all at Jake’s house on a Saturday night after Brooke and Chloe had called for a movie marathon. Michael offered to stay in the kitchen and make popcorn while the others went to the basement and chose movies. His plan to be alone backfired when Rich told the others he would stay up with Michael. He pretended Rich wasn’t there for a good minute or so, and he knew it was annoying Rich but he didn’t care.

“Yo, you gotta talk to me at some point. It’ll make the others suspicious if you just stop interacting with me.” Michael sighed mentally. For once, Rich had a point. But he wasn’t gonna admit it.

“Dude, arguments between friends happen all the time. I’ll tell them one happened between us.”

“Then I’ll tell them what happened in the bathroom.” Michael whipped his head around to face the shorter boy.

“You. _Wouldn’t_.”

“Oh, yes, I fucking would. And you know it too.” Michael put his head in his hands, swallowing a sigh.

“Why does it matter to you anyway? If they know, they could help.”

“No, they couldn’t. They would make it worse. Especially Jeremy.” Michael mumbled the last part, but he could tell Rich heard it.

“No. Fucking. _Way_.” Rich seemed to breathe it out rather than say it. Michael looked down, spitting a petal into his hands.

“Yeah. Fucking. Way.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, not out of anger or annoyance, but rather because he was trying not to cry.

“Are you happy? You got your answer.”

Rich looked blankly ahead at him. The world seemed to stop. There was no movement, no noise, no nothing. Just Rich and Michael: the dumbass and the damned. Then Rich hugged him. It wasn’t the best hug Michael has had, those came from his Momma, but it wasn’t bad. That much was for sure. He clenched his fist harder, as if the petal would disappear if he did so. The microwave beeped, signalling that the popcorn was ready to be put into a bowl, but the guys didn’t care. Michael buried his head into Rich’s neck, Rich patting Michael’s back.

“If it makes you feel any better, even though I love Chris, he’s one stupid piece of shit for passing you up.” Michael let go, giving a dry laugh before telling Rich it helped.

It didn’t.

***

The worst part of Hanahaki was not the physical side of it. No, it was the mental side of it. It was the pain of knowing that the person that you loved with all your heart didn’t care. The pain of knowing that you gave your heart and didn’t get one in return. Sure, you could sit for an hour and choke on flowers and petals, but the mental pain just won’t go away. You can think of something else, but there’s always going to be that voice in the back of your head reminding you that they don’t love you. And they never will.

Now, Michael never had a SQUIP, but from what Jeremy told him, he thinks the mental side of Hanahaki has to be pretty close to it.

His third month with the disease is on a Wednesday, and he celebrates by spending the night in the basement bathroom coughing up flowers. With the anniversary comes the realisation of the irony -- is it irony? English was never Michael’s best subject -- of the situation. Nearly twelve years after his Nanay, Michael was in the exact same position. Pining after someone he could never have. Crying into the toilet, flower petals littering the seat and the bowl. He rested his arm on the seat and then his head on his arm and chuckled hollowly to himself. “Way to go, buddy. You’re fucked. Absolutely fucked. Congrats.” He continued to laugh deliriously into his arm before he passed out from exhaustion.

***

“I need to talk to you.” Michael looked up from his phone to see Chloe peering down at him. He was the first one at the lunch table, as always, but she was normally the last. In his confusion, he took off his headphones. She sat down next to him, a serious look on her face. He became nervous, all confusion set aside for his English class next period.

“Uh, sure, what’s up?” 

“Look,” Chloe clapped her hands together and set them on the table, biting her lip in thought, “you’ve been acting, hmm, uh, weird. Lately.”

Michael began to sweat.

“And I-”

“Hey guys!!” Christine sat down, Jeremy not far behind her. Chloe pursed her lips and ran a hand through her hair. She turned to him and pulled out her phone. She looked up and turned to Brooke as said girl sat down, immediately grabbing her hand. His phone buzzed in his hand.

_Pinkberry. 5:35. Don’t be late. I know._

Fucking hell.

***

Michael pulled into pinkberry at precisely 5:34, and walked in the doors at 5:35. Chloe was waiting for him at the corner table, the one where couples normally sat. It was a small, hot pink, square shaped table that was accompanied by two brown chairs on either side. She had already gotten frozen yogurt for both of them, his plain chocolate with Oreos and Reese's pieces and hers vanilla and birthday cake with gummy bears, Swedish fish, and whipped cream. He sat down.

“Finally! I’ve been waiting forever!”

“I got here exactly when you told me to.”

“Minor details. Anyway. Lunch. I got cut off. How long?” Michael ‘hmm’ed, as if pretending not to know what she was alluding to. She sighed, her face falling solemn, “ how long have you had Hanahaki?”

Michael blanched for a second before spitting out the first thing he could think of. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Chloe!” He gave a fake, high pitched chuckle, taking a big spoonful of his froyo and shoving it in his face, trying not to show his pain. Another sigh from Chloe.

“Stop playing games Michael. I can tell. The constant hand over the mouth, frequently going to the bathroom even after you just went like ten minutes beforehand, always sitting next to the nearest trashcan. And seeing that you always look anywhere but Jeremy and Christine, and that you’re the biggest gay on this planet, you have it for Jeremy.” Michael looked down at his froyo, swirling it around with his spoon.

“How were you able to pick up on all that, Chloe?” Chloe sucked on her lips and let out a breath of air. She wasn’t meeting his eyes.

“It comes with experience, Michael.” He let go of his spoon as she looked up at him with a teary gaze. “Just like you, I’ve lived it Michael. I’ve had it. I’ve had Hanahaki, Michael.” Michael inhaled, squeezing her hand that he hadn’t realized he had grabbed.

“My flowers are red carnations.” Chloe sniffed before giving a small smile and squeezed his hand back.

“Mine were daffodils.”


	3. Level Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was up again, face in toilet bowl. It felt like every other time, but a new taste entered his mouth as he spit it into the petal polluted toilet below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyyyyyyy  
> Long time no see. Sorry about that, school’s a jerk.  
> Anyway, here’s the next chapter! Hope y’all enjoy.
> 
> \- Moji

It had been a good week and a half since pinkberry with Chloe. A week and a half of sitting in between her and Rich at the lunch table. A week and a half of them keeping his attention off of Christine and Jeremy, whom were sitting on the other side of the table across from him. A week and a half of them picking up on his urge to cough and making distractions so he could do so without people noticing.

But even after a week and a half, he couldn’t get Chloe’s words out of his head. She wasn’t shy about telling him about her experience, what it did to her, what it made her become. He’d been replaying the conversation in his mind for days now. When he was in the bathroom bent over the toilet bowl, when he was at lunch, trying to focus on anything but Jeremy, when he was trying to sleep and staring up at his ceiling.

***

_“Like I don’t even know how to explain it, Michael. It’s like, like it controlled me. Like I didn’t have any control over myself after a while. I became scared and anxious, I was frantic and panicky with everything I did._

_“But I couldn’t control myself. All my mind went to every day was ‘Brooke’ and how she didn’t love me. How she loved Brandon because they were partners in Chemistry, or Mason because she talked to him once in gym. It made me crazy, Mike — can I call you Mike?” He nodded. “Okay, but anyway…_

_“Then Jeremy came around. Brooke adored him, ADORED him. So I lost it, and almost ended up losing her because of it.” He knew she was referring to Halloween, what happened before the fire. In the bedroom. “It’s not just a disease, Mike. It’s almost, almost parasitic, for lack of a better word. In your brain, in your lungs. It sits and feeds off of your pain, your anguish. And it pushes you. Pushes you to your limits, physically and mentally. It makes you desperate for the love that you want, need, and you have no say over anything. The flowers are torture, Mike. Torture.” She took a deep breath, wiping tears and stirring her froyo, which had long since melted._

_“And Mike, I’m telling you this because I wanna help. I know the pain, know the hurt. I know you. And I don’t wanna see you fall to the death toll this disease has. I don’t wanna see you fall to the statistic, or become another number for a study. You’re more than that, Michael Mell. You’re more than just the flowers.”_

***

 _More than just the flowers._ He was more than the flowers. He was strong. He’s had Rich, and now he has Chloe too. He’ll survive. In fact, he has hope that maybe he’ll do more than survive. He has hope that he’ll live.

 _Living and surviving are two very different ways of life_ , his Nanay would say. He would always get confused when he was little, but now, looking back, he couldn’t agree more.

***

The ceiling becomes his interest after a few seconds more of contemplating Chloe’s words. He’s been sleeping on the couch in the basement more than frequently now. Having a bathroom that close was important and necessary. And while the rest of the basement was pretty decent, the ceiling was unpalatable to him.

The normally white paint was a soft, gray-blue tone, made that way from a mixture of the distorted light from the moon and the foggy haze outside that came from recent rainfall. There were four different water damage stains that had come from a leaky pipe, which has long since been fixed, as well as a few cracks near said stains from all the walking he and his family do on the floor above. There’s also a sticker that he put on the ceiling himself when he was ten; a small, yellow star shaped one with a green outline and the words ‘Good job!’ in the center that he had gotten from his teacher, Miss Murrey, at the time.

Oh, how he misses the time before Hanahaki. He used to wonder what it would be like to have, seeing his Nanay and the girl from camp and Mr. Hazelton, seeing all of them have it and watching from so up close. He remembers his encounters vividly. Picking up his Nanay’s petals when they wouldn’t make it into the toilet, wiping the tears from the girl’s eyes whenever she picked her head up from out of the bush, the feel of Mr. Hazelton shaking in pain — he remembered it all.

And now it was his reality. A reality he never wanted, but the reality he got anyway.

He never asked to fall in love. He never asked for that person to be his best friend. He never asked for Jeremy to be kind, and and smart, and funny, and have those little quirks about him that just made him so huggable. He never asked for any of that. But it’s what he got.

“Damn you, Jeremy Heere,” Michael wheezed as he spat petals into the plastic bin by the couch. “Damn you.”

***

Waking up was the hardest. Depending on how Michael slept, petals would either get lodged in his throat or would end up spread out everywhere around his head. Today it was the former.

He rolled over on his side and hit his fist to his chest, much like what he did when he was ten and would pretend to be Tarzan. He forced a cough, then another one, and another one. He held his nose and silently screamed, pushing air from the back of his throat into his mouth. And that’s what finally dislodged the petals.

He craned his neck to reach the plastic bin by his head, spitting out a wad of petals, nearly the size of a ping pong ball. He leaned back down and put his hands at the base of his throat.

He swallowed air. His throat was dry and sore, in pin from the flowers that had coated his esophagus, absorbing all the moisture and saliva and making them inevitably stick together. The sigh that followed was quiet but made up of pure exasperation. It was getting worse, so much worse, but there was nothing he could do.

Except for continuing to live life as if nothing was wrong.

And that’s exactly what he did. He would get up and get ready every morning, go to school, do the work, hang with friends and come home and suffer alone in his bathroom.

Nowadays that was basically all he did. Suffer in the bathroom. Spend time in the bathroom. Even when he wasn’t coughing up petals and bile into the toilet bowl, he would sit on the tile floor, knees to his chest, and just stay there. He would sit in the silence and just think about everything. It was the only time Michael would get to think clearly and for himself. When he didn’t have to worry about anything. It was when his right arm would rest on his knees and his left hand would press against the frigid white ceramic, his back leaning on the cool slate blue of the wall.

The color of the bathroom walls soon came to relax Michael. It was a stark contrasts to the deep, rich red of the petals that came out of his throat.

Over time, Michael grew to like the bathroom and how it made him feel. At least, when he wasn’t coughing up flowers. It was his new place of comfort, his safe place. It gave him warmth even though the bathroom itself was always cold. It made him forget about the world outside the walls. The fact that just a few months ago, his safe place had not been a room, but rather a person.

He began to forget that his journey started in a bathroom. He began to forget that his journey was most likely going to end in one too.

Michael sat up and ran a hand through his hair and then brought it back again to drag it down his face. He had to get ready. He had a test in geometry today he couldn’t afford to miss.

He sighed before pulling his hoodie over his head, a thought gracing his mind before he walked out the door.

_More than the flowers._

***

The day went by fast for Michael and after a pop quiz in history, holding back flowers all of chemistry and his geometry test, it was lunch. The group was making plans when he arrived late — blame the geometry test — and sat in his usual spot between Rich and Chloe.

“So Mike,” Chloe started. Only her and Rich called him Mike, and that was normally when they weren’t in front of the others, only when they were in a group call or when they were sitting with each other in Chloe’s room and venting. They had become pretty good friends, giving each other nicknames. Michael was Mike, Rich was now Ricky, and Chloe was Minivan — Rich’s logic: Chloe’s initials are CV, which is one letter away from RV, which is a type of vehicle, therefore she can be called Minivan. She wasn’t particularly fond of it and objected quite a bit at first, but it grew on her. And now to her two closest friends, besides Brooke, she was Minivan. “Whatcha think? Pinkberry? Tonight? 6:00?”

He looked around, before nodding. “Fuck yeah, need the break.” Rich threw an arm around his shoulders, grinning like a cat.

“Told ya Mike would be up for it,” he grabbed Michael’s headphones before anyone could do anything about it.

“RICK! Be careful with those! Break ‘em and pay for ‘em!” Michael pretended not to notice the confused look on Jeremy’s face at Rich’s nickname. Or the way he mouthed ‘Rick’ to Christine and how she mouthed ‘Mike’ back to him. He pretended not to notice.

He swiped one of Rich’s cheese fries. Yeah, they tasted like cardboard and the cheese was unnaturally thick and tasteless, but the way Rich froze in his actions said it all. He stopped from putting them over his head when they were halfway on, the right one only half covering his ear and the left one down too far, missing his left ear completely. The two stared at each other for a few seconds, maybe a minute, before Rich squinted and pulled off the headphones _very_ slowly. He was making a scene, as Rich does — because he’s _Rich_ — and Michael held out his hand waiting for his treasure md headphones to be gifted back to him.

“Oh for the love of Christ,” Chloe mumbled, exasperated, “just give him the damn headphones, you piece of shit.” She grabbed the headphones from rich and placed them around Michael’s neck for him.

“Chloeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” Rich started to whine. “We were having fuuuuuuunnnnnn. Weren’t we, Michael?”

“It was funny watching you act like a fucking dumbass.” The betrayal on Rich’s face was one for the books.

***

Michael looked down at his phone. 6:15. It was blowing up with texts from everyone asking where he was. He should probably text Chloe and Rich, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was too busy shoving his hands down his throat to make sure every petal was out and he could breathe.

It took a few more minutes but eventually he could breathe clearly again. He all but collapsed on the bathroom tiles and wept when it was done.

But then it got second wind.

He was up again, face in toilet bowl. It felt like every other time, but a new taste entered his mouth as he spit it into the petal polluted toilet below.

When he saw what it was he immediately reached for his phone to get Chloe and Rich. He chest restricted even though he couldn’t feel anymore petals rising. His eyes started watering and he had absolutely no idea what was gonna happen after this point. His head was spinning as he hit send into their little group chat.

“Shit.”

***

For Chloe, Pinkberry wasn’t the same without Mike. Sure, it was her and Brooke’s spot. They came here every other date and it was where Chloe asked Brooke out for the first time, but the last time she was here she was with Mike. They bonded. He wasn’t Michael to her after that, he was _Mike_. She knew _of_ Michael, but she _knew_ Mike.

And she knew, she knew, that something was wrong. He said he would be here and he wasn’t. It was 6:25 and he wasn’t here. He should be here. Her and Rich had been sending each other worried looks throughout the night, and she had to calm Rich down when he would start to glare at Jeremy and Christine at the end of the table.

She sighed and put another spoonful of her froyo in her mouth when her phone buzzed. She looked down and struggled to keep her composure when she read what had come in. “Rich,” her voice was shaky as she spoke. He didn’t hear her, his attention now focused on Jake. “Rich. Rich!” He looked at her, as did Jake. “We have to go, now. Grab you keys.” He looked confused and didn’t seem to realize what was going on. But did Chloe care? No.

So Chloe grabbed his hand and pulled him up and out of Pinkberry, shoving him in her car and starting it. She pulled out of the parking lot before he even had a chance to speak.

“What the fuck, Minivan?” She threw her phone at him without another word.

“Turn it on, dumbass!” And he did. He slowly read what was on the screen.

 **The Dumbass, the Darling, and the Damned** \- _Michael_ \- guys

 **The Dumbass, the Darling, and the Damned** \- _Michael_ \- theres blood

“Fuck.”


	4. Two Lives Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He isn’t ready to go. Not here, not now. He has yet to graduate. To go to college. To be cool in college for the sake of everything fucking thing in the universe. He spent nearly his entire high school career telling Jeremy that they’d be cool in college and just look at him now: sitting in his basement coughing up flower petals with less than a 50% chance of even graduating at this point. He won’t even get to see his own promise play out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyyyyy! Long time, no see! I’m sorry about not updating sooner but you know how life works, it’s unpredictable and things come up. Anyway, here’s the next chapter! It was a bit of a tough one to write for multiple reasons, and I’m sure there are mess ups all over the place seeing as I write this mostly in the middle of the night, but it’s here and done. Hope y’all enjoy, as always!

Michael was never a fan of blood, if he was being honest. The sight made him dizzy, the smell made him nauseous, and the _taste_. Oh God, the taste. The metallic tang mixed with the thick saliva led to an unmistakable bitterness that was almost impossible to get out of your mouth.

The blood was a deeper, darker red than the fiery, brighter one that adorned the petals that came out of his mouth. It seemed fitting, the darkness of the blood. Something so horrible to see, painful to look at, deserved to be dark. It would be too ironic — Michael’s still not sure if he’s been using that right — if it was a bright, a happier red.

Now normally, when it came to blood, Michael would immediately look away. He would squeeze his eyes shut, put his hand over his mouth, and leave the room. But for some odd, unknown reason, he wasn’t fazed by the blood just he just coughed up. If anything, he was almost entranced by it. The way it lay on the petals, almost an oily sheen to it; a glaze of sorts. The color contrast with the ceramic toilet, the white of the bowl becoming ten times brighter against the harsh red. It enamored him that something so vulgar, so horrendous, vile, any other adjective that goes along with those, something like _that_ could be so, so mesmerizing.

But it didn’t matter, because even though Michael wasn’t consciously fazed, his body seemed to have another idea. He froze, unable to move. His eyes began to close and he fell onto his back, he head softly thumping on the gray, plush rug that was underneath him and protecting him from a concussion. His chest still felt tight, his head still dizzy, and he could feel the tears making their way down the sides of his temples and into his hair. The worst part about it was that he couldn’t move — freezing up is called freezing up for a reason. And while he could still feel everything, he couldn’t move at all. He _felt_ his phone buzz in his hand, but he couldn’t look at what happened to make it buzz. He could _feel_ the next round of petals coming up, but he couldn’t sit up to make sure they landed in the toilet. He was stuck, laying on the floor, crying and staring up at the ceiling, left to think about what the hell he was going to do.

***

“Mike!” _Rich_.

“MIKE!” _Chloe_.

They were here. They came.

Rich came bursting through the bathroom door, nearly tripping over Michael as he did so. Chloe followed suit, stopping in the doorway rather than walking any further. He propped himself up on his elbows and forearms, trying his best to smile at his friends. “Hey there, buckaroonies.” Rich and Chloe stared at him, bother their eyes red and puffy, and Chloe still had a few tears running down her cheeks.

“Who the fuck’re you callin’ a ‘buckaroonie’?” Chloe shook her head at Rich and his comment and walked over to Michael. She and Rich pulled him up, supporting his weight and walking him out of the bathroom. They placed him on the couch and he laid down. Rich put the trash can from the bathroom beside his head and went upstairs to get him water; Chloe cleaned up the bathroom floor nd the toilet.

Both sat down on the floor with their backs leaning on the couch. Chloe had her knees up to her chest and a hand pushed her hair back. Rich’s head was laid back and his eyes were closed. His right leg was straight and left was bent, his left arm resting on the risen knee. Michael continued to look at the ceiling, something that he seemed to be doing a lot of lately.

This, this blood, changed _everything_.

He put his hands over his eyes and cried. Something he had done more frequently over the past few months than ever, but this was different. It was sobbing, it wasn’t hysterics. He wasn’t sad, he wasn’t angry. He was crying because he was hopeless. He was in an utterly hopeless situation. And he absolutely _hated_ this feeling.

“I don’t wanna die,” he whispered, more to himself that to Chloe or Rich, but they heard it anyway. “That’s what the blood means right? Is that I’m losing time, that I don’t have hope.”

“Mike…” Chloe tried to say something, but was ultimately cut off.

“My god, I need to tell my moms. They’re gonna fucking flip, man! What if they make me get the surgery-“

“Mike.”

“-and then I forget all about Jeremy! Or, or what if I die before I even get to tell them?”

“Michael.”

“Guys, just. Just. What if I die?” The question hung in the air. Whatever Chloe was going to say died on her tongue as the reality seemed to hit them all. Death was now an actual possibility.

Of course, it had been a possibility since the first petal Michael coughed up, but it was always so distant, such a last resort option to them. And maybe they had managed to distract each other enough from the prevalent danger of the disease and what it was becoming. They had no idea what the garden that was manifesting in Michael’s lungs was becoming, they had no idea how long he would have left, how fast the disease would progress.

And Michael, as much as he would joke and play around talking about how he wanted to die because he had a test in math or he had to go to his Momma’s work event, he didn’t actually want to _die_.

But here he was.

A step closer to death with every breath he was taking, or lack thereof with the petals in his airway. A step closer with every time he saw, talked to, thought about, or was reminded of Jeremy. He was digging himself his own grave and he had no clue how to stop it.

 _So_ _don’t_. He told himself. As the saying goes: if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. And well, you can’t beat death. So you might as well just accept the fate and die. But he can’t.

He isn’t ready to go. Not here, not now. He has yet to graduate. To go to college. To be cool in college for the sake of everything fucking thing in the universe. He spent nearly his entire high school career telling Jeremy that they’d be cool in college and just look at him now: sitting in his basement coughing up flower petals with less than a 50% chance of even graduating at this point. He won’t even get to see his own promise play out.

He started to cry again. “I don’t wanna die.”

***

It had been a few minutes of silence. No one knew what to do or what to say in this situation. Michael felt pathetic, Chloe was trying her best to think of something to say, and Rich, well he was just Rich.

And then Rich did exactly what he did best. “I’m gonna fucking punch him.” Chloe and Michael both looked at him. Michael in confusion and Chloe something akin to alarm. “Jeremy. I’ll deck him so fucking hard his teeth’ll come out.”

“Why?”

“‘Cuz, Mike, he’s causing you pain and I think he deserves to feel some for himself.”

“He’s not wrong. I have people that can help too.”

“Chloe don’t you dare hire one of your mystery hitmen to attack Jeremy.” Indeed, Chloe has very mysterious connections to very odd people in various professions. She could hire a whole fucking secret fight club for all he knew! That phone of hers hid some secrets. But getting it was an adventure for another time….

“I wouldn’t need to hire them. They _owe_ me.”

“ANYWAY, Jeremy’s a dick. Agreed?” Rich put his fist in the air as if it was proving his point. Chloe gave a chuckle, one so quiet it almost wasn’t heard, and raised her fist in agreement.

“What is this, the fucking breakfast club?” Michael’s fist remained on the couch and he fell silent. With all Jeremy has done in the past few months, some of which was worth calling him a dick over — like calling him a loser, that wasn’t cool man; or taking the equip in the first place and trying to take over the school. Like those things were instances where calling him a dick was okay? Michael’s Hanahaki? That was Michael’s fault because _he_ fell in love with Jeremy. This was on _him_.

And there was _nothing_ he could do about it. Nothing he could do about the blood and the flowers, or the omnipresent self hatred over the fact that he was completely unlovable and the fact that he wasn’t Christine or anything remarkably _close_ to her.

That’s what it all really boiled down to: he wasn’t Christine. He wasn’t the girl who everyone wanted. He wasn’t that type of person and he would never be that type of person.

And he was gonna die because he never thought to make himself that type of person.

But he doesn’t regret it. And he never will. Michael wasn’t that type of person, but perhaps, if he _was_ , then maybe he never would’ve become friends with Jeremy. And even if Jeremy was the cause of his pain, he was still the light of Michael’s life and an even bigger cause of his happiness.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Rich broke through his stupor.

“Rich, we all know you’re broke as fuck and that you have no penny.” Michael couldn’t help it, Rich was just too easy to insult.

“RUDE.”

“Also, who the hell says that anymore? The last person I’ve heard say that is my grandmother, and she’s a 76 year old women from Connecticut.” Rich put a hand to his chest in mock offense at Chloe’s comment. “But anyway, yeah, what’s up Mike?”

“I don’t hate him.”

“Well of course you don’t, dumbass!” Chloe screeched, for lack of a better word. Yelled shrilly? Squeaked? Michael couldn’t put a name to the noise, but it was high pitched and caused ringing throughout his left ear. “If you hated him you wouldn’t still be coughing up petals.”

“She’s got ya there, bro.”

“Shut it, RichieBoy”

“Never call me that again.”

“No promises.” Cue Rich’s obligatory middle finger, which Michael took the opportunity to bend backwards, as Rich wasn’t facing his direction and wasn’t expecting it. The shriek that followed was the loudest Mike had ever heard come from _anyone_. He snickered as Chloe cackled and Rich yanked his hand out of Michael’s grasp.

“YOU FUCKING _ASSHOLE_!”

***

“Basket!” Rich shoved the trashcan in his face as he spit petal after petal and flower after flower into the trashcan. All of them were, at least, spotted with blood. Chloe handed him water, which he swallowed as if he had been given it after a year without it in the desert, and laid back down. Chloe and Rich resumes their spots, now laying down on the floor, seeing as it was quite late and all three teens were tired.

They all were still close in some way or another. Rich and Chloe we’re laying so their heads were on each other’s shoulders and their bodies were parallel to the couch, Rich was holding Michael’s hand and Chloe’s on leg was up on the couch, her ankle intertwined with Michael’s legs, providing warmth.

“Hey you guys?” Michael’s voice, which was raspy from both coughing up petals and being half asleep, broke through the silence. He got two hums of recognition. “I love youuuuuu.” His voice trailed out as he held the “oo” part.

A hand squeeze and a bit of ankle movement was all that he needed to know that they heard him.

“Hey Mike?” His turn to hum. “Why the fuck is there a yellow star on the basement ceiling?

***

It’s nights like these when Michael hurts the most. The nights where he can feel the petals residing in his throat, waiting to be coughed up, where he has two people who love him sleeping beside him and another two upstairs in their own room, but none able to do anything.

It’s nights like these when he wishes he actually hated Jeremy so he could make it all stop. When he wishes that he hated Christine so it would be easy to try and get Jeremy to love him — but it’s impossible because _everyone_ loves Christine Canigula, dammit. Every-fucking-one.

It’s nights like these when he wants to regret falling in love with Jeremy. It’s nights like these when he realizes that he’s always loved Jeremy and that there’s no one else he would ever want to love.

It’s nights like these when Michael wants Jeremy the most, because Jeremy was always there to fix his problems. But how can Jeremy fix the problem when he _is_ the problem?

It’s nights like these when he knows that no matter how much he wants to be, he _knows_ he’s never gonna be okay.

It’s nights like these that he starts coming to terms with the fact that he’s gonna die at the hands of the flowers inside of his lungs.

It’s nights like these when Michael loses all hope and then remembers that he never really had hope to begin with.

It’s nights like these when the Hanahaki starts to win.


	5. Bonus Level

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s holding something behind his back, standing in the position in such an effortless manner, and he stands stock still without moving his eyes. Oh, his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okaaaaaaaaaay. So. Hi. Welcome back.
> 
> I am SO SO SO SORRY that I’ve taken so long to update this. I didn’t abandon it, but writers block is a little bitch and on top of it my life is a mess, but I’m here now and the writers block is GONE. My life’s still a mess but it’s always been one, so I can handle that. 
> 
> This chapter is a lot shorter than I’d like it to be, mainly because I couldn’t think of what to write. It could also be considered filler, if you wanna look at it that way. Or you could pull an English teacher and read it like there’s a deeper meaning. I just hope y’all aren’t disappointed with this. But know that a longer chapter that moves the plot forward is already in the works. 
> 
> And two points to Blookyberry, who called that I had writers block,which probably wasn’t that hard to figure out, and whose comment made me decide to not be lazy and post this chapter.
> 
> I love y’all dearly and thank y’all for sticking around even through the long ass wait. 
> 
> And as always, hope y’all enjoy!!!
> 
> \- Moji
> 
> <3

“ _Come on, Mike! You gotta tell me how you managed to get that strike!” Michael felt Rich smack him on the shoulder. He looked around. Bowling? He’s never been bowling with his friends. Hell, he doesn’t think he’s ever gonna bowling at all.  
_

_“No way, Richie. Now fuck off and go do you turn,” he hears his voice but he doesn’t recall moving his mouth or thinking of a response. What he wants to say is:_ Where the fuck am I _?_

_But he can’t. He looks around. Families he’s never seen are around, employees he didn’t know existed stand behind counters looking bored. What catches his eye, though, is a man standing by the entrance, outside the doors._

_He’s tall, or at least from what Michael can see. He’s got dark hair and pale skin, almost a mix between cream and light gray. Veins are visible on his cheeks, extremely so since Michael can see them from here. He’s wearing a black dress shirt with the sleeves pushed up — not rolled, pushed. Michael hums, he’s never seen someone push up the sleeves of a dress shirt — and deep red pants. And he’s holding something, Michael can’t make out what it is though._

_He turns back to his friends. All of them are staring at him. Empty eyes, devoid of all emotion. He blinks, and then their eyes are static. It looks like someone changed the channel on a television. He blinks again and suddenly they’re all back to normal, watching as Christine gets her fifth gutter ball in a row. “Awww, Christine, that sucks! You’ll do better next turn,” he hears Jeremy say. Rich is messing with the names on the scoreboard, Chloe and Brooke are talking about their next date, and now Jake is up to bowl._

_He feels the odd sensation of someone looking at him, and moves his head to his left. There, closer now, is the same dude as before. Michael can make out small details. His hair is curly, his sleeves are pushed up at uneven spots on his arms, he has a sly looking smirk on his face. Michael shivers and turns back to his friends. It’s his turn._

_Michael picks up a ball. It’s green and reminds Michael of the color of Mountain Dew, and nine pounds. It definitely doesn’t feel like nine pounds though. He slides his fingers into the grips and takes two steps before pushing the ball out in front of him, relaxing his fingers so they can slip from the holes._

_Only his fingers don’t release and Michael is pulled down the alley with his ball. The momentum if far greater than it should be, and as Michael looks up from trying to unstick his hand, the lane he’s on is the only lane. It’s surrounded by a blinding white and at the end there’s a square of the television static, noise accompanying. It gets louder and louder and eventually Michael closes his eyes, bracing for an impact that he’s not sure is even going to come. Louder and louder, it’s nearly deafening._

_Until it isn’t. It stops._

_The weight on his hand, the ball surrounding his fingers disappears. He’s standing. He opens his eyes to see pitch black. He starts calling out for his friends, for his Momma or Nanay. He doesn’t know where he is, but he does know that he doesn’t want to be there._

_“ **Michael** **Mell**.” A voice, deep and rich, with almost a bitter tone. He turns towards it. It’s the man from bowling, standing not even two feet away. Michael’s at a loss of what to do. The details, he recognizes, are not what he’s thought all. _

_He’s not just pale, but translucent. The veins on his cheeks are on his hands too, and up close Michael can see they aren’t veins, but rather_ vines _. He’s holding something behind his back, standing in the position in such an effortless manner, and he stands stock still without moving his eyes. Oh, his eyes. Filled with that same television static, they’re huge, accommodating for the very small nose and mouth that also adorn his face._

_All in all, Michael considers him creepy._

_The man grins, as if that was his intended goal. He pulls out what he was holding behind his back and Michael’s breath hitches at the sight. It’s a carnation. A full carnation with a stem. It’s red, much like the red of the mans pants._

_“What do you want from me,” it’s not just a question, but a plea. The man doesn’t say anything, but his lips stretch further as his grin becomes wider. He snapped his fingers and he heard Jeremy’s voice fill the silence._

_“Optic nerve blocking: on. He’s just some dude, I don’t know him. He’s annoying, don’t mind him. Get out of my way, loser.” Michael tried to move but found that he couldn’t. He looked down to see vines covering his feet and climbing his legs. He tried to push them off as Jeremy’s voice insulted him, some he hear when Jeremy was under control of the SQUIP, others were ones he’s never heard before. The vines seized his wrists, and he was now hopeless. He was stuck listening to the one person he loved most insulting him. The word loser on repeat like a broken record. The vines climbed up his face made their way over his mouth and nose._

_He couldn’t breathe._

_A new voice broke through the air, Jeremy’s being cut off and silenced. “ **Wake** **up** **and** **smell** **the** **roses** , **Michael**. **Who** **knows** **how** **many** **roses** **you** **have** **left**.” _

_***_

Michael’s eyes open and he immediately grabs for his throat. He sits up. Chloe and Rich still lay sleeping on the floor _._ He wiped at his eyes to find that _,_ like in his dream, no. Like in his _nightmare_ ,he was crying. He heard Chloe’s snore, something he’d promise not to tell anyone she does, and a small sigh come from Rich. His left hand stayed at the base of this throat while the right one moved to a place above his lungs.

He struggled to regain his breathing. He needed to calm the fuck down. He had too little time left to stay panicked.


End file.
